


Honest Work

by shinesurge



Category: Kidd Commander (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, like there's not any smut yet but it's Planned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29753658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinesurge/pseuds/shinesurge
Summary: Ulrich inherits a very specialized sort of establishment from an old friend, but the work is lonesome until he finds the place suddenly too crowded. Then it's lonesome and exhausting.
Relationships: Agatha Goddard/Phineas Kidd, Jocasta Hubris/Raven Slight, Toulouse Deforest/Ulrich Weiss
Kudos: 4
Collections: Everything Else





	Honest Work

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason it's just really really fun writing about Ulrich and Ellie as business partners, and the idea of Ulrich running a brothel kills me so here we are.
> 
> This isn't finished! It just stops right in the middle of a scene, which is unpleasant but I started this thing almost a year ago and haven't made much progress beyond what's here. I really like a lot of it though, so here's a piece of writing you can read If You Want that may or may not continue eventually.
> 
> Despite the subject matter, there isn't actually anything too smutty going on in this so far. If I ever get around to doing more I'll update the rating and be very clear when to expect filth in a chapter. Also, in typical KC fashion, I built this setting based on what I think would be fun to read about rather than any sort of actual research into how these places function irl, and this "modern setting" differs from reality in just enough ways that I feel the need to mention it. don't worry about it too much i'm just here for character studies
> 
> okay,

Ulrich picks at his pasta while Jocasta goes on, driving home her point with gestures that make the diners around them pretend they're not surreptitiously trying to determine if this woman is about to go postal in the Olive Garden at two in the afternoon.

"Never understand it," she says, "everything I told her about all the shit I went through and she goes and does it anyway." She's speaking in a tone normal enough, but as always Jocasta Hubris' voice demands attention like an oncoming locomotive. At least one table has asked for their check since Jo's rant began, hovering nervously over half-eaten meals. Ulrich nods, listening but still staring down at his plate.

"She's been booking appointments nearly every other day, any time she can get with Agatha," he says. Ulrich winces internally at handing out what should be very confidential information, but it's not as if Jo doesn't already know everything that goes on under the roof of his establishment. He takes a thoughtful bite and reaches for the bread basket. "To be frank she's been our best client, nothing she's asking for is especially cheap. I have no idea how she's funding all this."

" _We_ certainly aren't helping her." Raven's voice unspools across the table to meet Ulrich's ears, a sliver of static in his hearing aid. Jocasta makes a disapproving sound, either at the thing he said or the way he said it, but Ulrich tracks the way her hand settles companionably on Raven's thigh under the table. Ulrich clears his throat. Raven, long hair drawn into a messy knot at the back of his head, is focused on an abused paperback while Jo and Ulrich catch up. That doesn't necessarily mean he isn't paying attention. One hand holds the book open with a complicated tangle of slender fingers, and the other curls under his chin, and even with an expensive flaky pastry and a romance novel in the space between them Ulrich finds it difficult not to wither under his gaze. But at Jo's mock-disapproval the icy eyes slide over to watch her instead, and there is a fondness in his smile that makes Ulrich ache. Looking at Raven always gives him the inexplicable feeling of looking at a picture of himself in thirty years, and watching how completely smitten the pair of them are wavers in that place between warmth and bitter want. He isn't sure how long they've been together, isn't actually sure how old they are to begin with. They look incredible for how much life he knows they've each lived, and when it's brought up they shrug off questions with non-answers about drinking water, moisturizing, wearing sunscreen. Sometimes they share a look that feels like Ulrich's had a door slammed in his face.

Ulrich eats mechanically, ruminating while Jo presses on about the obscene irresponsibility of her gremlin child. He can't help but think about that tiny gesture between Jo and Raven a moment ago, the wordless exchange. It wasn't like he _couldn't_ have that, technically. She had propositioned Ulrich to spend a night with them, a handful of times, which was sort of a job hazard that was more depressing for him than it was uncomfortable because whatever it was he wanted from them was Not That. Tumbling someone into bed had never been a problem for Ulrich, to his eternal frustration. The fond looks and the wordless touches, the routine and welcome invasion of each others' space, those aspects had proven a bit more elusive.

Jo seems to notice his distraction and the flow of her speech breaks. She leans forward.

"Where are you, boy?" she asks, smiling mischievously. Now they are both focused on him, and the weight is enough to anchor him to the present. He smiles politely and wipes his mouth.

"I am right here," he lies.

* * *

Ulrich plods along just behind the couple, the considerate way to take up the sidewalk in their odd number. Raven hovers dutifully at Jo's elbow while she drags at a post-lunch cigarette, her warm exhales folding into ephemeral pink roses in the crisp winter air. Ulrich wonders how the three of them look. He and Raven aren't wearing the _same_ outfit, but both were long black peacoats accentuated with blue scarves; Raven's a paisley silk Jo had given him for one of his immeasurable birthdays, Ulrich's a machine-knitted thing he'd gotten on sale, blue and cream yarn worn soft with use. He tugs it higher over his nose and his breath fogs up his glasses. He forces his eyes away from Raven's slender hand snaking through the crook of Jo's arm and lets himself slouch to shove his hands in his pockets. He wishes he had a hot drink, a shopping bag, something to occupy himself with.

They part ways, Jo toussling Ulrich's hair and Raven giving a small but friendly nod. Ulrich watches them cross a gap in the crowded sidewalk before they vanish into the crush of people, leaving him alone with the knot in his stomach. He heads in the general direction of Work with little concern for actually arriving.

He feels better with the scarf covering most of his face, all his winter clothes a shield against the stream of people he moves through. It's February; the proper holidays are done and the new year has lost its luster, people having given up on their fad diets clutch steaming street food, desperate for something sweet to adorn this most goddamned month.

Ulrich doesn't go in for diets. Or abstinence of most any sort, really. God, what a luxury to _choose_ to manufacture your own animal misery, your own absences; feeling stable enough to pass things up and assume they'll still be there for you _later._ Different worlds, different _universes,_ Ulrich alone on his own little planet. He sinks further behind his scarf while the strangers around him twist into more threatening and alien shapes.

His feet slow, as they always do, in front of Odds. It is exactly ten minutes' walk to work from here, and when that seems like too much to bear due to weather or general malaise the bookshop is a nice waypoint to gather his resolve. It's tiny compared to the other shopfronts lining this district. The front entrance is a windowed wooden door with lacy curtains peeking through the panes, more suited for a home than a business. A metal cart full of books for trade sits on the sidewalk next to a box with a jaunty little ivy plant living in it. That's new, though the thing seems to have made a week's climb up the brickwork since Ulrich had been by two days ago. It feels almost like it's waving at him, an impulse that brings such a rush of loneliness he shakes his head at no one to try and clear it out.

Ulrich checks his watch. It's not like they strictly _need_ him to be there to get things started, anyway.

* * *

Warmth wraps around him when he steps inside. There's indie music playing softly, filling the insular silence between the shelves with a nasal voice and jangling strings. The shop is empty and no one's at the register but an electronic chime sounds from somewhere in the back when the door closes. The interior is cramped, which makes Ulrich nervous, but it's the best place to find obscure titles and the staff is usually pleasant. People who work in shops like this tend to be there because they like books better than striking up conversations.

"Sorry! Be right there!" someone calls. They sound so frantic Ulrich feels sort of bad for coming in.

"No rush," he says, unbuttoning his coat and loosening his scarf in the relative safety of the shop. He wanders to the new arrivals. Maybe another biography would do him good.

The cloth curtain in the doorway to the back room shifts and a man with the fluffiest hair Ulrich's ever seen walks out carrying a small stack of books, all copies of the same title. He's trying to blow strands of curly black hair from his face and doing a terrible job and Ulrich lets himself stare for an extra beat. He's wearing a loose caramel-colored sweater and his chuck taylors look like they might be older than _he_ is. The shopkeep moves like a stack of dishes in a cartoon; precarious, an understood shape moving in unexpected ways, lilting just enough to be alarming before narrowly avoiding total collapse. It's a stupidly poetic description for someone he's watched carry books for all of ten seconds and Ulrich snaps his gaze back to the shelves, his face hot as if he's already managed to embarrass himself. The worker finally gets behind the register and drops the books, smooths his hands over his clothes. Several of his fingertips have day-glo bandages around them.

"Hello!" He says brightly, already busying himself with something else. Price stickers, it might be; Ulrich is trying hard not to look at him.

"Afternoon." Ulrich responds politely.

"Just let me know if I can help you with anything." Ulrich nods and wanders between some high and uninteresting shelves, angrily gathering his bearings out of the line of sight. What is their problem, why are they doing this to him, they're normally such well-trained bearings. They don't answer.

He waits until he's pretty sure the guy is thoroughly distracted before returning cautiously to the non-fiction. He picks something up just to hold it, flips it over in his hand; there's a barcode sticker on the back, placed perfectly in the center of a guide printed on the book jacket, and he realizes this is what the man at the register is doing, and his attention is drawn magnetically to the counter, where he is doing it, and sure enough that is exactly what is occurring at the register, those bandaged fingertips are trembling as they very, very carefully fix identical stickers to identical books. The man has a shock of white framing one side of his face, stark where it's pulled back with the rest of his hair into the enormous cloud of curls blooming around his shoulders.

Maybe Ulrich shouldn't buy anything. He isn't sure he could survive the transaction. If this person is going to be running the shop permanently he might have to quit coming here altogether.

Stumbling upon a familiar author shakes him out of his spiral. He smiles a little and reaches for the book, not bothering to check for a price tag or a synopsis or a perfectly placed barcode, and marches himself to the register before he can change his mind.

Toulouse, the nametag says. It's decorated with an acrylic moth and a very small rainbow pin and Ulrich's mouth goes dry. The pin, a lance of instant camaraderie; the moth, _unspeakably_ charming. The real issue is that Toulouse had rolled up the baggy sleeves of his yellow sweater at some point, and his arms are _covered_ with tattoos. All blackwork, darker shapes on dark brown skin, a pair of matching sleeves carving out intricate geometric tendrils all the way to his wrists. Ulrich realizes the tattoos are undulating very slowly, shapes shifting like lava in a lamp. He finds he can't actually tell what they're supposed to be. He swallows hard, but his mouth is still dry and he has to suppress a cough.

"This all?" Toulouse's voice is high and thin, like it had been when he called to Ulrich from the back of the store. Did he just talk like that all the time? Like he's just been startled? Ulrich remembers himself enough to nod. Toulouse squints at the book and marks it down on a notepad that looks like it's used to take inventory, which seems like a strange thing to have in addition to the barcodes. His handwriting is rigid and tense like an overwound watch, and unnervingly neat for how quickly his hand moves.

"Hubris," Toulouse smiles tightly and Ulrich wants to grasp his shoulders and hold him still, reassure him they're both getting out of this alive. "she's a local author you know."

"Is that so?" Ulrich asks. He's desperately grateful for his stage training. Toulouse, apparently lacking such blessings, laughs nervously.

"Yup," he stammers, and that's the end of it. It's terribly awkward but in a pleasant sort of way; the new hire is trying his best. Ulrich suddenly notices the tattoos again when he finds they're moving _towards_ him, stretching slowly over the back of Toulouse's resting hand and bunching on the forearm facing Ulrich. They're almost like eyes vying for a better look, or, or plants turning to the sun. Ulrich nearly laughs at the absurdity of himself being the sun in his saccharine-stupid monologue. He's got to get out of here. Ulrich smiles as Toulouse's bandaged fingers fumble a flat paper bag from a banded stack.

"Come back and see us." Toulouse says brightly. Ulrich flees.

* * *

Ulrich descends the stairs to the unassuming green doorway tucked below street level, out of the sunlight. He shifts his bag to one elbow, with his hand makes a little cover against nothing and nobody while he punches a combination into a small number pad. The door clicks and he strides in, careful to pull it firmly closed behind himself.

The interior is cheerful, and why not? This is supposed to be _fun._ Ulrich likes to think of it as a sort of spa, a tiny slice of Vacation right here under the city, and for Ulrich that usually includes at _least_ one water feature. The fountain presides over the center of the foyer, full of fake floating lotuses and a handful of singing bowls that meander between the jets. He reaches in and frees a bassy brass bowl that had gotten itself caught under a stream. There's some kind of boring muzak playing through the speakers, but the metal ringing and clean scent from the fountain occupies most of the spacious room's airspace.

There is a friendly service desk backed against the wall between two nondescript hallways, where you'd expect one should be, and sitting behind it is a pretty blonde rabbit having a salad. As you'd expect there should be. She hardly looks up at him when he passes by to get to his office.

As he digs out his keys, a very faint moan drifts out from the hallway behind the service desk. He and the receptionist glance at each other. He checks his watch.

"Early isn't it?" Ulrich asks. Ellie shrugs and finishes chewing before she answers.

"They were both here and decided to get started." Ulrich makes a face.

"Is Agatha getting paid for the extra time?"

"You know she doesn't do anything for free."

It's not an answer and they both know it. Ulrich sighs and finishes unlocking his office, shelving the issue for a time when he isn't so distracted.

He settles in to begin the endless minutae of maintaining a business, lingering only a _little_ over Toulouse The Tattooed Man. The way his sweater bunched over his elbows comes up only once or twice while he figures up the payroll, and certainly Ulrich does _not_ think of the crooked way Toulouse had smiled when he saw him out.

* * *

It's around nine PM when the door chime goes off. Ulrich has one of the speakers in his office; he doesn't normally go out to interact with guests, but he likes to be aware of the coming and going. The door is cracked and he hears Ellie's customer service voice float in. Not a regular then, someone new. He quietly goes to the door to peek through the crack. His blood runs cold.

The sweater is replaced by a heavy khaki vest and he's wearing a wide brimmed hat over his lovely fluffy hair but it's definitely him, it's _definitely_ Toulouse's nervous rhythmic shuffling he can see from across the room. Ulrich panics. He can't see Toulouse's face from here but he can see Ellie smiling as she takes out the paperwork, completely oblivious that Ulrich's universe is crashing down around him.

Toulouse crosses the room. Even his earlier nervousness from the bookshop must have been dialed back, because now the force of his tension spirals out around him like arms around a galaxy, a black hole that almost, _might_ , distort anything that catches in his aura. He is viscerally out of place against the carefully manufactured ease of the lobby. From here Ulrich can watch him walk unobstructed and the way he moves his feet is so strangely deliberate, it's almost like gravity works in reverse for him; he presses his feet _down_ rather than pulling them _up._ He sort of curls around the service desk when he finally gets there.

"Hi!" Ellie chirps. Ulrich wonders if she had noticed anything strange about his movements. Toulouse swipes his hat backwards off of his head where it catches on a thin cord strung around his neck.

"Hello." Ulrich can _feel_ the nervous smile in his voice.

"Toulouse?" Ellie asks. Toulouse nods. So they'd corresponded already. Ellie had made him an _appointment_ already. MUTINY in his OWN HOUSE. How long had this conspiracy to ruin him been going on??

Ulrich shakes his head, the thoughts evaporating.

"Well, I have to admit our discussion was a little different than the usual initial contact with clients so I thiiink I remember most of what we decided to do today - " wHAT is going on here " - but let me pull up your account real quick anyway."

Ulrich's eyes roam over Toulouse where he leans against the desk. With a completely professional curiosity; he doesn't let just anybody in here. He picks at the bright bandages on his fingers constantly. They've been changed since this afternoon.

"How did you hear about us?" she asks. She stands up and slides a clipboard and a pen across the counter to Toulouse. He has to bend a little uncomfortably to rest his elbows to write and Ulrich twigs that he's actually quite tall. The way Toulouse carries himself almost hides it, somehow. Ulrich notices Ellie get distracted for an instant by Toulouse's bizarre writing.

"Some- Someone at work, haha." He's a terrible liar. Ellie rests her chin on one hand and smiles a very lovely smile she had developed over having this exact flustered interaction with many, many individuals. She flicks her eyes towards Ulrich's office and clocks him hovering in the cracked door. She winks. Toulouse reaches the end of a line and she turns her attention back to him.

"Is this your first time soliciting sex work?" she asks sweetly. Toulouse barks a nervous laugh and his writing hand cringes inward, his fingers tapping rhythmically along the pen. Ulrich startles a bit when Toulouse's tattoos scatter where he can see them along the backs of his arms, a shiver rippling across them like wind across leafy treetops. He wishes he could see them better.

"I'm obvious aren't I?" He turns his face up towards her and Ulrich watches as Ellie's smiling expression melts from professional into genuine. Something in Ulrich is quietly satisfied; maybe Toulouse is just an impossibly charming person, it wasn't Ulrich's _fault_.

"Yes, but I would have been able to tell anyway. I've been doing this a while." she winks at Toulouse, this time. "But it's cute on you. I'll take polite nervousness any day."

"Are people _rude_ to you?" Toulouse asks. It's a ridiculous question, but he'd asked it so earnestly it takes Ellie a little off guard. Toulouse's shoulders perform the incredible feat of tightening further as he _also_ realizes what he's asked and he stammers right over whatever answer Ellie had settled on.

"W-well, no, I know they must be. I work in retail, h-ha." He twists the barrel of the pen apart and together between his fingers unconsciously. "I just. All the secrecy? And how expensive it is? Like, you've got my name and everything h-haha." Ellie's politely covering her mouth so she won't laugh at him. Toulouse takes a breath and Ulrich watches his shoulders jerk down like his strings have been cut. Ellie sees an opening and shrugs delicately.

"It _is_ a business like any other one." Toulouse goes back to writing and Ellie looks thoughtful. It's not the usual subject she chooses to fill the Paperwork Silence, but it's easy to work with. "If anything the price tag just makes the clientele _worse_ , honestly; a lot of people snag a referral and think they can come in treating it like whatever other luxury clubs they're part of. I think they expect the staff here to be lower class or something, they're always upset nobody swoons over the money they wave around." she leans in conspiratorially. "The difference from retail is, anybody here can throw any client out on their ass, and they're lucky if we let them get dressed first." Toulouse laughs softly.

"Your boss must be really understanding."

**Author's Note:**

> sorry, sorry, i know. Thank you for reading!


End file.
